The Making of a Monarch

The St. James estate in Weston, Massachusetts, basked under the moonlight, its sculpted hedges and marble fountains whispering of wealth—not earned, but inherited, curated like a dynasty’s crown jewel. Inside, the grand dining room pulsed with the quiet murmur of conversation, punctuated by the delicate clink of crystal and the distant strains of classical music.

Julian St. James sat at the head of the mahogany table, effortless in his command. His midnight-blue suit, tailored to ruthless precision, bore no creases—only power. Gold cufflinks glinted beneath the chandelier’s glow, subtle insignias of a dynasty carved in privilege.

He raised his wine glass, commanding the attention of his family and the carefully curated circle of elite acquaintances who had been granted a seat at the St. James table.

“To a night of excellence,” Julian began, his voice smooth, deliberate. “And, more importantly, to the continuation of the St. James legacy.”

Polite applause followed—expected, rehearsed. His mother, the epitome of refined elegance, dabbed the corner of her eye with a silk napkin, her expression one of perfectly measured pride. His father, ever stoic, merely nodded, his approval subtle but deliberate.

Julian leaned back slightly, letting the moment settle before he continued. “It seems that no matter the endeavor, success follows. Whether in academics, debate, or—of course—my untouchable run as an amateur wrestler.”

A ripple of murmurs passed through the table, some intrigued, others puzzled. At the far end, a guest chuckled lightly.

“Ah yes, your wrestling days! Didn’t you go undefeated one season?”

Julian’s smirk faltered—just for a fraction of a second—before returning. His eyes, however, sharpened like a blade.

“Not one season,” he corrected, his tone controlled, crisp. “Every season. I was undefeated my entire career.”

The guest raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering behind his glass of wine.

“Impressive,” he said. “Then why didn’t you wrestle in college? You’d think someone with your talent would’ve been a shoo-in.”

The air shifted. Subtle, but tangible. Julian’s mother stilled, her hand hovering over her glass. His father’s jaw tightened, though he made no move to intervene.

Julian smiled, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed the sting of the question.

“Wrestling, while noble in its purest form, is often corrupted by institutions that fail to recognize true excellence,” he said smoothly. “I chose to focus on pursuits that better

aligned with my intellect.”

A few polite chuckles scattered through the room, but the guest, emboldened by wine and arrogance, wasn’t finished.

“Or maybe they just didn’t think you had it," the guest mused, swirling his wine. "Wrestling isn’t just technique. It’s grit. It’s heart. Maybe that’s where they lost interest.”

Silence. Thick and suffocating.

Julian’s grip on his glass tightened, the stem pressing into his palm. The room was still speaking, still laughing, but it had all blurred into static. The heat rising in his chest wasn’t

just anger—it was something worse. Recognition.

“Perhaps,” he said, voice measured, cold. “But grit and heart are tools of those who lack talent. I, on the other hand, rise above such primitive notions.”

The guest blinked, caught off guard by the sharpness of Julian’s retort. The conversation quickly shifted, others at the table eager to steer the night back to safer waters.

But the words lingered.

Hours later, the house was quiet, the last of the guests gone. In the softly lit study, Julian stood before the gilded mirror above the fireplace, his reflection staring back at him, unreadable.

Maybe they just didn’t think you had it.

His jaw clenched. He exhaled slowly, but the bitterness remained.

“They’ve always been jealous,” he muttered under his breath. “Always.”

The door creaked open behind him. He didn’t turn.

“Still awake?”

His father’s voice, calm yet unyielding. The authority in it filled the room like an unspoken demand.

Julian straightened but didn’t turn to face him. “I was just reflecting.”

His father stepped further into the room, the silk of his robe whispering against the floor.

“You should be in bed. Tomorrow is another opportunity to strengthen the St. James name.”

Julian finally turned, his jaw tight. “Strengthen?” His voice was steady, but the edge was unmistakable. “What part of tonight didn’t scream strength to you, Father? Did you not hear how they praised me?”

His father sighed, slow and deliberate. “They were polite, Julian. Don’t mistake manners for respect.” He studied him, his gaze sharp. “And for God’s sake, why did you bring up wrestling?”

Julian’s fists curled at his sides. “Wrestling was part of my journey. My success. It’s what made me who I am.”

“It’s an embarrassment,” his father said coolly, stepping closer. “Do you think the Rockefellers or Vanderbilts built empires by rolling around on sweat-stained mats? Wrestling is barbaric. It cheapens the St. James name.”

Julian’s eyes burned, but he refused to break. “It’s not barbaric. It’s an art. A demonstration of discipline and superiority.”

His father scoffed. “It’s beneath you.” His tone was final, cutting. “And if you had any sense, you’d stop clinging to it. Let it go, Julian. You have a future to think about—a future that doesn’t involve rolling around on a mat like some common ruffian.”

The words landed like a slap. But Julian didn’t flinch.

“I’ll prove you wrong,” he said quietly.

His father turned toward the door. “Do what you want, Julian. Just don’t bring shame to this family.”

The door clicked shut. Silence.

Julian turned back to the mirror. His reflection met his gaze—hard, cold, unrelenting.

"They’ll see," he murmured. "I’ll make sure of it.”